


Before You Go

by dogeared



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I never really unpacked," Danny likes to joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before You Go

"I never really unpacked," Danny likes to joke—says it to perps with an unconcerned shrug when they tell him he'd better get out of dodge; says it with a sly grin when Kono complains that he must own _something_ other than denim cut-offs to surf in, like he has a secret stash of board shorts he's hiding from her. And Steve's always thought that's exactly what it was, another half-serious dig at the islands, like pineapples and jellyfish and killer coconuts.

He's only been in Danny's apartment a couple of times. They usually wind up at Steve's place, where Danny lets himself in, brings over beers and makes himself at home, where there's more room and a beach and a breeze, which Steve knows Danny likes, even if he acts like he doesn't. But Steve's never been here for long, and he's never bothered to look around much. He thought he'd figured Danny out that first day, anyway, the broad strokes of him, at least—figured that what he saw was what he got. And by the time he'd filled in the details and knew the kind of guy Danny really was, there didn't seem to be much point in casing his place to confirm it.

Tonight, though, they've ended up here—Danny drove them back, ostensibly so Steve could pick up his truck, parked at Danny's long enough to be dusted with a layer of grit and pollen while they were all over the island on a case, but Danny invited him in, turned off the ignition and just looked at Steve for a minute before he did, and Steve can feel anticipation humming through him, now, a low buzz of arousal, like it's about to happen, whatever this thing is that he and Danny have been building toward. Danny keeps watching him, being a lot more obvious about the attention he's paying Steve than he usually is, and Steve's watching right back, his gaze sliding and snagging on Danny's mouth, Danny's thigh a few inches away from his on the couch, the restless shift of Danny's shoulders under his shirt.

And he's trying to be patient, he really is, trying to let things play out in their own time, but this is exactly the kind of scary-exciting that gets him going, he can't help it ("Adrenaline junkie!" the Danny in his head accuses), and if he sits here much longer, he doesn't know what he's doing to do. So he pushes up off the couch and offers to get them more beers, grins at Danny's rolled eyes and waved hand and "Oh, by all means, help yourself."

Steve rests his head on the fridge door, takes a breath before opening it and reaching in. His thinking's starting to shift to the tactical—he knows the couch folds out, and he can't help wondering about the give of the mattress, the tensile strength of the springs . . . and whether Danny has a real bed somewhere.

It's not sneaking, not really, not when all Danny has to do is turn his head to see what Steve's doing. He shifts the bottles to one hand, their necks cold between his fingers, and tests the knob of Danny's bedroom door; it turns, and he pushes it open.

There is a bed, and on the far side of it, piled against the wall, is a stack of boxes. Some, no, most of them are still taped up, and there's a big suitcase standing next to them, the white airline tag standing out like a flag, like a symbol of Danny's surrender in coming here in the first place. One of the bottles, slick with condensation, slips out of his grip and lands on the carpet with a dull thump.

Steve has to tamp down the urge to go tearing through the rest of the apartment—to check the closets and the medicine cabinet and the cupboards in his kitchen, to see whether Danny ever really settled in at all, because suddenly it feels like the trade winds could blow in one day and Danny would be gone again, just like that.

"Danny!" he yells, and it surprises him, how loud it is, how angry and desperate-sounding. Danny's right there behind him in a couple of seconds, but Steve pushes past him, pushes out of the apartment, Danny calling after him, and he's never been so fucking glad to be able to climb into the cab of his own truck. He's still holding the other beer, and he can't figure out what to do with it, fumbles it into the cup holder. The bottom drops out of his stomach, like he's going to be sick, and he swallows hard and throws the truck into reverse, and by the time he pulls into his own driveway, he can hardly remember how he got home.

Everything seems a lot more logical in the bright, cool light of morning. Of course Danny's not going to up and disappear—he'll stay if Gracie stays, go when she goes, wherever she goes. But the thought that Five-0, the team, whatever was between him and Danny wasn't enough to make him want to settle down feels like a gaping hole in Steve's chest, a sharp enough pain that when he rubs his hand over it, he's surprised to find himself whole. His eyes are gritty, and there's a persistent ache behind his forehead. He needs to drink a gallon of water, maybe go for a run, let the impact of the ground and his body pound everything away.

There's no question that everything will continue as normal. Their work's important, and they're too deep in each other's pockets to waste time, what, sulking? Losing it completely? Steve's not sixteen anymore. And anyway, Steve tells himself, the whole point is that he doesn't want Danny to go, so he's sure as hell not going to waste whatever time he has left. More than anything, Steve feels duped, like he showed Danny his hand, and Danny had cards up his sleeve the whole time, maybe Danny had a whole secret deck. He's let Danny see so much, all these months, and Danny wasn't ever really in it for the long haul. Steve feels stupid, but he also figures that's his problem, and it serves him right for laying it all out there so easily, for not protecting himself better.

Normal turns out to be a lot easier than Steve thought it would be. Neither of them says anything about the boxes, and it's not like there aren't plenty of distractions, and if he walks around feeling like a giant bruise most of the time, even that has to heal, eventually. Danny's still watching him closely, differently, like he's trying to figure Steve out, but whatever anticipation Steve felt is an empty space, now, a phantom ache of what could have been. He knows how to play things close to the vest, no matter what Danny says—and the thought makes him flinch, that easy familiarity, all the ways Danny knows, or knew, him. Anyway. He can hide himself away, he just never thought he had to from Danny.

Steve thought maybe their off hours would be harder, but Danny still shows up, still lets himself in and makes himself right at home just the same as he always has. He brings two six packs, the first time—a peace offering, maybe, and sitting down by the edge of the water almost feels like nothing's changed. Steve listens while Danny talks about their case, about Grace's history assignment, about something he saw on the local news. They both nurse their bottles, making them last, and when Danny takes off, he leaves the rest in Steve's fridge.

The next time Danny shows up, Steve's out for a swim. He comes back to find Danny in his kitchen, in the middle of unloading one of those reusable grocery bags—must be Grace's influence. There's some kind of meat wrapped up in butcher paper, and a couple of bags of salad mix, which isn't that strange—Danny doesn't usually bring food, but Steve's grilled plenty of times, and he's not going to complain if Danny wants to chip in—plus a bunch of stuff that Steve doesn't eat, but Danny does: chips and salsa, ice cream, frozen pepperoni pizza, corn flakes, some kind of bottled coffee drink. Steve watches him find places to stow all of it, and then he pulls out a manila folder, the kind that means nothing but paperwork at HQ. Inside, protected, is something Steve recognizes right away—one of Grace's drawings, simple and vibrant, waxy crayon, yellow sunshine and blue water and something red and polka-dotted that Steve can't quite puzzle out, an octopus, maybe. Danny pulls a couple of magnets out of his pocket, one a rainbow, one that spells out _aloha_ , fixes the drawing on the fridge and acknowledges Steve. "She made it for you," he says, serious, all business, "and made me promise to bring it over, so here you go, your very own work of art. And it could be worth something, someday, so don't go getting ketchup or grease from that boat in the garage on it."

After Danny leaves, Steve sees that he left one of Gracie's school photos on the counter, one of the wallet-sized ones, and he sticks a corner of that under the rainbow magnet, too.

The week after that, there's a mug Steve swears he's never seen before in his dish drain, and a soft, old t-shirt he has seen before, on Danny, tucked away in a drawer in the bathroom. Danny brings over a whole box of his favorite ballpoint pens and leaves it on Steve's desk. "Danny," Steve starts, but Danny's already talking over him, saying, "How come there are no pens in this house, huh? Doesn't that ever bother you?" and not waiting for Steve to answer.

"Danny!" Steve says again, finally exasperated, finally pushed beyond his limits of trying to figure out what the hell is going on. "Are you aware that you're leaving more and more of your crap over here?" He's breathing hard, and the ringing in his ears tells him he might have been yelling that last part, and maybe, possibly, he's not as one hundred percent in control of the situation as he thought he was.

Danny's watching him again, looking at him like he's made up of old, faulty wiring that doesn't have a prayer of being fixed, except no, maybe Danny's looking at him like he's a project, like if he had the right manual, he might be able to tinker with Steve until he's up to spec, and Steve just has no idea what to do with that.

"Okay," Danny says, "okay, all right, I guess we have to do this." He holds up a hand, even though Steve hasn't said anything, even though Steve feels frozen where he stands. "No, I mean, we do, and I owe it to you—I just, I feel dumb, and that's not a sensation I'm very comfortable with. The boxes—"

And now Steve does move, backing up until he bumps into the couch and sitting down hard.

"—the boxes, they weren't about not staying, it didn't mean I wasn't going to stay, or that I wasn't committed—I guess. I guess I was a coward, okay?" And that's not right, since when has Danny ever been anything but brave and strong? But he's not done, he's still talking, saying, "Look, I've been burned before, okay? And I've maybe been a little gun-shy. God, no, that's terrible, that's a terrible joke waiting to happen, forget I said that," and Steve really, really has no idea what Danny's talking about. Danny rubs a hand over his face, steps closer.

"I was afraid that if I let my guard down, if I let myself get too comfortable, it would all blow up in my face again. And, well, I'm not wrong, am I?" he says, gesturing between them, and he's not wrong, because Steve gets it, god, of course he gets it.

"You're not wrong, Danny," Steve says, and Danny sags a little, and it looks like relief, and suddenly Steve can see past his own bruised heart, can see that Danny's been, what, feathering the nest? "And all this was?"

"A gesture, jeez, yes, a gesture that I was trying to make—"

"With pens and corn flakes?"

"With pens and corn flakes, yes, Steven!" Danny yells, and whatever Steve thought was passing for normal before now looks like a pale imitation, because this is normal, this is them, this is what he's been missing so hard he couldn't even let himself think about it.

Danny rolls his shoulders, one after the other, like he's trying to work out an ache, like maybe he's been carrying around something heavy, and then Steve's up and next to him, circling behind him, wrapping his hand around the base of Danny's neck and pressing his thumb against the vertebrae there just because he can.

Danny lets his head fall forward, sighs, "Smoooooth dog," and Steve squeezes harder, starts to laugh, feels it bubble out of him, joyful and free, when Danny turns around and catches him, kisses him.

It's new and familiar and scary and exciting and everything Steve's been wanting; he can feel his pulse beating crazily in his fingertips as he presses them against Danny's jaw, feels the pressure points of Danny's fingers where they're holding on to him, pulling him down, anchoring him. He slides his tongue along Danny's full lower lip, kisses the corner of his mouth, drags the tip of his nose against Danny's cheek, filling himself up with Danny because he wants to, taking his time because he can. Steve shifts his hips, rocks a thigh against Danny, smiles against his temple, murmurs, "Doesn't feel gun-shy to me," and braces himself for impact, an immoveable force, confident that neither of them are going anywhere.


End file.
